


Pretty Liars

by TheCheerfulPornographer



Series: Loki Screws Everyone [2]
Category: Norse Mythology, Supernatural, Thor (2011)
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Dom/sub Undertones, Genderplay, Other, Threesome - M/M/M, Warning: Loki, non-gendered pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/TheCheerfulPornographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story starts with Dean picking up a beautiful, green-eyed woman in a bar.</p><p>It ends with Dean getting called out on his bullshit, in the most Loki way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Liars

**Author's Note:**

> This story disregards all SPN canon regarding Loki, and replaces it with the Marvel Universe version.
> 
> In my head-canon, Loki is genderless in zir essence, so this fic uses appropriately-gendered pronouns when Loki is being gendered, and zie/zir when Loki is just being Loki. (It's kind of an experiment.)

Loki is laying low, and Loki is bored.

This is a very volatile combination.

So far, this drinking hall fails to amuse. Zie had thought, perhaps, to find some human here to entertain zir, perhaps to take to bed, or to embarrass, or to trick. But now that zie is here...

Zie looks around zirself, eyes narrowed, and can hardly keep from sighing. The humans available tonight are so small, their spirits flickering and mothlike, emptyheaded, driven only by small and predictable lusts. Loki cannot even bring zirself to expend the energy to trick them, tonight. It just isn't worth it.

It just isn't _fun_.

Just as zie is about to give up, to take a sideways half-step into shadow and fade away, the door to the bar crashes open. It bangs against the wall, just a touch too loudly, and two men walk through the door.

They are as unlike in appearance as Loki and zir own brother, but zie can see instantly that that is what they are. The taller one — there is an intriguing darkness that swirls within the core of his bright spirit, so out of place, and Loki for a moment is curious about how it would taste. Zie imagines it something like pepper and dark chocolate and ice on zir tongue, all at once. Under other circumstances, zie would be very tempted to want to explore it, to understand what caused it, to push it and find out how far it would go.

On this night, however, zir attention is diverted by the elder brother. 

Now, here is a fascinating mind. 

Where the other flickers light and dark, this one's soul is entirely bright — but it is like no soul that zie has ever seen carried by a mortal. Where his brother's soul is smooth and hypnotic, this one's soul is cracked and shattered, covered with jagged edges and crazed lines, sharp enough to cut even a god. It looks like a thing that has been healed and rebroken, over and over again, many times, without respite or mercy.

It looks like a thing that would slice to ribbons anyone who came within touching distance.

Loki wonders how this man is still alive. Zie wants to touch that soul, _needs_ to touch it, wants to feel its edges tearing at zir skin. It is the only truly new thing that zie has seen in centuries. Zie wants to understand how this man can carry this soul and yet be functional and, to all appearances, sane.

Loki takes a breath and forms a word in zir mind, and discreetly tips zir glass of fine liquor (finer than what they sell here) out onto the table. A few drops fall and gather on the wooden surface, idly shining. Loki licks zir fingertip, elegant and catlike, and draws it carefully through the golden liquid. Where zir hand has passed, letters remain, spidery and fleeting. They spell out a name: "Dean Winchester".

Well.

Loki cups zir chin in zir hand, and grins. It is a lovely grin, a grin that men would pay to look at, even as it summoned their doom.

Tonight might not be such a waste, after all.

\---

Dean's knuckles are white, but he's trying to ignore it. Making out like everything's okay isn't really a conscious choice, at this point, not after all these years of grinning and pretending. It's ingrained, a way of being; it's something that he doesn't know how to do without.

The specific reasons for it don't even matter.

(He tells himself this, that the reasons don't matter. It's true, and because of that, he doesn't have to look too closely at what those reasons are. They don't matter, so he doesn't have to face up to what he wants, or why he knows that he can't get it. Why he doesn't deserve it.

He doesn't have to consider Cas' hands against his back as the nerdy angel heals what was really a minor wound, an insignificant thing really, only those hands were so warm and soft and right. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, and that's why he stalked away afterward, white-knuckled, blundering in pursuit of the nearest bar.)

This? This is just post-hunt energy. Dean has some steam to blow off, that's all. And he knows exactly what he needs to do: get drunk, get laid, and move on in the morning.

It won't fix anything.

But that's because there's nothing to fix.

He just needs a distraction from his own mind.

Sam knows the drill, heads over to a table to do whatever he does that involves not getting laid, while Dean saunters over to the bar. He turns around and leans back, surveying the night's offerings, like a warrior king inspecting his tributes.

The pickings are slim, but Dean's an expert picker. None of the men here are attractive, thank God; Dean doesn't need that reminder. This is a blue-collar bar in a backwater town, and most of the patrons look like farmers and tradesmen, people who do honest work with rough hands. Dean's tastes run more toward the scholarly type, reserved and stoic, with soft hands... and when did that become the case, anyhow?

It's just one more thing best left ignored.

Clearly, Dean needs a drink. He leans over to procure one — whisky, neat — and turns himself back around to focus on the women.

There's a busty redhead over there — oh, but no, that guy is obviously her boyfriend. That blonde is too old for him, that brunette, too young. (He guesses this is the kind of place where they're none too picky about ID.) The black woman sitting in the corner with her friends is kinda hot, but she looks a bit like Cassie, which, no.

Damn.

Dean sighs and sips his tumbler, and resigns himself to an evening in the shower with his hand, thinking of... something. Certainly not dark hair or blue eyes. Something that is definitely not that.

Just as he's about to give up and turn away, Dean's eye is caught by a table in the darkest back corner, which he'd somehow overlooked before. The table is outside the circle of the barlights, caught in shadow; but Dean swears that he can still see a flash of bright green in the eyes of the woman sitting there. She's alone, and she's looking at him, dressed in some kind of black leather... dress-thing, with a coy little smile on her face. She's tall and slender, with a narrow face, sharp cheekbones and fine features. 

Honestly, she looks like she could be a model, or someone on TV. 

She has long curly black hair that tumbles down her back, and it is held back from her face by means of a hairband, to which weird little horns are attached.

 _Oh cool, a goth chick_ , Dean thinks. He wasn't expecting to run into that type here, but he's certainly not going to question his luck. She looks bold, staring right at him; he wonders if she's into anything kinky.

He lifts his glass to her in open invitation, and then sets it to his lips. She does the same, still not breaking eye contact. Her eyes are very, very green, as green as... something that isn't blue at all.

That kind of green.

Dean likes it.

He smiles and rises from his barstool, ready to go meet his evening's entertainment.

\---

As the human approaches, Loki smiles to herself and adjusts her neckline to reveal a faint shadow of cleavage. This outfit is an approximation of her regular armor, changed just enough to be acceptable in this drinking hall. She always finds it interesting to see how humans react to such a garment, depending on her form.

This Dean does not disappoint; his eyes roam her body eagerly, and she smiles at him again. Oh, he will be easily led. She's almost disappointed by the readiness at which he falls into her hand.

He sits down at the table and smiles, a wide, bright grin, as thin as a paper mask. Loki stares, fascinated. He maintains such an appearance of normal masculinity, and meanwhile she can barely understand how he keeps moving. 

"So, hey there, I'm Dean. Nice leather..." he gestures his hand at her body, "...thing you've got going on there. I dig it."

She smiles back, and unlike him, her mask is bone-deep and perfect. "Call me Luka."

"Well, it is a genuine pleasure to meet you, Luka." She thinks he must be trying to blind her with his teeth. She thinks that on most women, this probably works. "So tell me, what's a gorgeous woman like yourself doing in a place like this?" 

With an effort, Loki restrains herself from rolling her eyes at a line that even a Jotunn would find tired, and prepares to spin a tale that he will find convincing, something about traveling for business, and stopping for the evening, and being oh so alone. 

This Dean is an expert liar, she can quickly see that much — but Loki is _the_ Liesmith, Loki Silvertongue, the Mother/Father of All Falsehoods. So of course, she sees right through him. Literally. 

She amuses herself by studying the fractured patterns of his soul and counting the lifelines of the beings he has killed, while Dean carries on, spinning his gossamer-thin web. Loki could break apart his lies with a single word, a single gesture. But that would be no challenge, and provide no further fun. Instead, Loki bites her tongue and smiles, and waits for Dean the Hunter – whose tongue is not so much silver as a tarnished sort of brass — to get to the point and invite her into his bed.


End file.
